Page 27 of June

For two weeks straight, I kept rehearsing. Obsessing, really. I had added a solo at the very end of the performance, something no one had asked for, something only mine. Nobody even knew it was there. I poured myself into it. Every note, every movement, every breath.

Leo was there through most of it, hovering on the edges of my frustration. He kept apologizing—apologizing for Mora, for Selene, apologizing for the chaos but none of it made a difference. I had overheard him fighting with Aaron. I caught the tail end:

"You did this on purpose, Leo!"

Aaron's voice was sharp, spitting.

"You've always had a crush on her, and you saw this as your chance."

Leo shot back without hesitation.

"Can you stop with your stupid conspiracy theories? Yes, I've always liked her. Who wouldn't? But I had no idea it was that Selene! Don't blame me or her though, you were an idiot, Aaron. You had her, and you let her go."

Aaron's silence was jagged. "I know,"

he muttered finally.

"No need to remind me."

I had left them there, their words ringing in my ears like broken glass. I didn't intervene. I didn't want to. Instead, I turned all that energy into the work.

I hired a new stage manager or at least, I tried. While searching, I took on the job myself. It was exhausting but satisfying, almost like a punishment I chose. By the end of each day, I collapsed into bed with the weight of it all pressing against me, but at least it was my weight. My choice.

On the eve of the performance, when I stepped into January's house, I expected the usual quiet. What I found instead was noise, unexpected and alive. Usually, her place was as composed as she was—quiet, elegant, the kind of polished calm that made you sit up straighter without realizing. Tonight, though, the air smelled like garlic and butter, and laughter ricocheted down the marble hall.

I followed the sound into her kitchen and froze.

May was on a chair in her socks, teetering dangerously as she stretched toward the top shelf, muttering like she was on a mountaineering expedition. Marchy stood at the stove, wielding a wooden spoon with mock seriousness, as if she'd been promoted to executive chef at some five-star Parisian restaurant. And January, perfectly composed in cream silk pants and not a hair out of place, was setting the long glass dining table with delicate porcelain plates and sparkling crystal stemware, like the chaos behind her was part of some avant-garde performance piece.

"Surprise!"

they all shouted when they saw me.

I blinked.

"What... is going on?"

"A girls' night,"

January said smoothly, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her smile was small but triumphant.

"Tomorrow's your performance. You've been carrying nerves like lead weights, and I don't intend to let you go on stage with that look on your face."

"With food,"

Marchy chimed in, dramatically waving her spoon.

"Heaps of it."

"And with dessert,"

May announced, hopping off the chair with the spice jar clutched like treasure.

"It may or may not survive the oven. Place your bets now."

I dropped my bag by the door, laughing.

"Oh my God!"

and rushed to hug them all.

The table was a riot of contradictions: steaming pasta in a designer serving bowl, garlic bread slightly charred on the edges but perched neatly on January's silver tray, and a salad that looked like it had been thrown together in three minutes flat before being dramatically centered under the chandelier. It was imperfect, loud, and messy—against the backdrop of January's refined, gleaming kitchen, it was almost comical.

But it was perfect. Exactly what I didn't know I needed.

"Where's December? I've been trying to call her, but it just goes straight to voicemail,"

I asked, glancing around the room like she might suddenly pop out from behind a chair.

May glanced at me, her smile faltering.

"She left for a while."

I frowned but let it go.

"Anyway, tell us about the performance!"

Marchy demanded, nudging me.

"Are we getting front-row seats or what?"

"Front row? Please,"

January scoffed, flipping her hair.

"We deserve backstage passes."

We all dissolved into laughter again, the kind that tightened my ribs.

That's when Aaron's name lit up my phone. I let it ring, pretending not to notice, but my friends did. Their eyes were already on me, and I braced for the questions I knew were coming.

"So,"

May said, her voice dripping with implication.

"How do you feel about him?"

I froze for a beat, then sighed.

"I don't want to talk about it, really. He's been trying, I know. I know he feels guilty, I know he's sorry. I just don't think that'll ever be enough."

"Yeah, well, he's always been crazy in love with you,"

May said, tilting her head like she was delivering a fact instead of an opinion.

"So going back to his high school sweetheart was a shock to all of us, but you know—nostalgia makes people do the dumbest things. I once almost called my ex because I missed the way he made pancakes."

"You mean the guy who burned your curtains?"

Marchy snorted.

"Still the best pancakes I've ever had!"

May shot back.

They cracked up, and I couldn't help but roll my eyes, though the corner of my mouth twitched.

"If you give him a chance,"

Marchy said once she'd caught her breath.

"you know it won't be as before. You're both different now."

I said, shaking my head.

"I want to focus on my performance right now. I pushed him and everything related to him, way, way to the back of my mind."

"Okay, but more importantly; are the costumes actually danceable this time, or are you all going to suffocate in sequins again?"

I groaned.

"First of all, no sequins. Second, yes, they're breathable. I'm not that cruel."

"Debatable,"

Marchy muttered.

"And,"

January cut in with a grin.

"do we finally get normal lighting? Or are you planning to blind us with another migraine-inducing strobe?"

"It was artistic choice,"

I shot back.

"It was an epileptic hazard,"

she corrected.

We all burst out laughing.

"Fine, fine,"

I said, raising my hands.

"This time it's soft lighting. Very celestial. You'll thank me later."

"Okay, but real talk..."

May added.

"are you going to, like, fly from the ceiling this time? Because if you are, I'm bringing popcorn."

"What? No!"

I laughed.

"Fine, then at least tell me you're wearing glitter. Big, messy, in-the-hair-for-days glitter. That's performance law."

Marchy raised her hand like she was in school.

"Question: if I clap at the wrong time, will you be able to tell from the stage? Because I'm warning you now—I have terrible rhythm."

"Yes, I will notice and yes, I'll glare at you."

"Good,"

she said, smirking.

"I live for your stage glares."

May leaned back in her chair.

"Will there be snacks? Like, intermission snacks? I don't care if it's just sad little peanuts. I need food to emotionally support you."

I groaned, laughing.

"You are unbelievable."

"Supportive!"

May corrected.

"We are supportive!"

"Yeah,"

Marchy added.

"We just have no idea what we're talking about."

********

The theater smelled faintly of dust and polish, like all old stages do. Backstage, the muffled hum of the audience seeped through the curtain—low laughter, shuffling feet, the occasional cough. My stomach felt like it had been replaced with a colony of butterflies, each one beating its wings against my ribs. This was it. D-Day.

Around me, the other dancers, students from all walks of life, buzzed with their own nervous energy. A few younger ones were pacing, chewing their nails, whispering to themselves. Leo was stretching in the corner, his headphones crooked around his neck, watching everyone with the calm of someone who'd been here a dozen times.

"Hey,"

I said, clapping my hands together, pulling their eyes toward me.

"Let's do the ritual."

They gathered in a loose circle, some hesitant, some eager. We did what we always did before rehearsals: shook out our arms and legs until we felt silly, shouted the name of our favorite food (the louder the better), then touched the floor together, palms pressed to the boards, as if grounding ourselves in the stage. The silliness cracked the tension—laughter broke out, and the younger ones started bouncing, energy turning from nervous to electric.

"You're going to be brilliant,"

I told them, looking at each face, from the trembling twelve-year-old in ballet flats to the sixty-something man who had joined classes late in life.

"This isn't about being perfect. It's about being alive out there. Remember that. Enjoy it above all!"

When the call came—"Ten minutes to curtain!"—they scattered to fix costumes and run last stretches. I slipped away, needing a moment alone.

In the dressing room, silence rushed in like a tide. I stood before the mirror, gripping the edge of the table, breathing in through my nose, out through my mouth. Focus. Just focus.

That's when the door opened.

"Aaron?"

He stood there, slightly out of breath, holding the brightest bouquet of sunflowers I had ever seen. The golden heads almost swallowed him whole, a ridiculous burst of summer in his arms.

"I thought—"

He smiled.

"Well, I thought these might calm your nerves. Sunflowers always face the light, right? Even when they're heavy, they lift their heads. You have always loved these flowers, sunshine!"

For a beat, I just stared at him. He looked so sincere, so determined to be thoughtful, I just smiled and said.

"They're beautiful. Thank you."

He set them down gently on the vanity, like they were too precious to drop. His eyes lingered on me.

"You're going to shine out there. No matter what happens, I want you to know, I'm proud of you."

"Thank you."

I replied.

He gave a small nod, reading the boundary in my voice, and stepped back toward the door.

"Break a leg, star."

Then he was gone, leaving the sunflowers blazing against the mirror, their reflection staring back at me like a silent reminder of who I was and who I am.

I let out a shaky breath, pressing a hand to my chest. Outside, the stage manager's voice called.

"Five minutes!"

It's time.